On the ground floor of an industrial building near the Brooklyn Naval Yards, in the wee hours of the last day of July. The room is well beyond steamy, and about the size of a suburban den. Most likely a room that saw years of sweatshop machining through the majority of the last century. Concrete on all sides, but festooned with amateur graffiti and young art. A brass band is playing a very rambunctious concoction of cabaret, polka and ska.
The dancers wear jet black wigs, minimal thongs, and tassled tops. All but one of them is certifiably female. There is room enough to turn in place, but little more, and the dancers rely upon the horns to make room for them, especially the trombone, either from the physical imposition of their dull brass instruments, or the bright brass noise. The dancers are drenched in sweat, as is everyone in the room. But while we slog around in our sopping clothes, they, glistening and slippery, have the advantage. The pom poms they brandish are also sweaty, and although they are also pungent of countless performances and storage among costumes and boots, hats and wigs, I drink in every blow, like a supplicant in a $150/hr "dungeon."
